


You Must Be Out of Your Goddamn Mind

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Star Trek Fusion, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Explicit Sexual Content, Frottage, M/M, Mutual Non-Con, Pining, Rank Disparity, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-08-04 23:03:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16355969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: In which Starfleet captain George Washington, and his second in command Alexander Hamilton, discover too late that a local beverage disagrees with their human biology.





	You Must Be Out of Your Goddamn Mind

There's no graceful way to refuse the invitation.

Hamilton honestly wishes there were. Not because he doesn't appreciate the significance of the gesture, or the need of the ruling family to thank the Nelson's crew for saving their world from literal annihilation. But because he can see how tired his captain is beneath the smiles and pleasantries. He knows Washington too well to be fooled by a polite facade, no matter how convincing.

"We would be honored. Thank you." It comes as no surprise that Washington has accepted the invitation for both himself _and_ Hamilton; if the captain is trapped attending this banquet, naturally he will drag his second-in-command along with him.

Hamilton doesn't mind. He would’ve volunteered if Washington had bothered to ask. In any case, he's nowhere near as exhausted as his captain. He’s tired, yes. But he is also far more accustomed to days at a stretch without sleep, thanks to a lifetime of bad habits and too many intellectual passions to contain in an Earth-standard day.

The banquet is held in a royal palace surrounded by the most stunning vistas Hamilton has ever seen. The terrain is mountainous, though the air is pleasantly warm wherever it blows through open windows and archways. A vast canyon stretches into the distance along the west edge of the palace grounds, and every balcony they pass offers a glimpse of natural splendor.

"How long do we need to stay?" Hamilton murmurs when he's confident only Washington will hear him. The corridor is vast around them, and the banquet-bound entourage has stretched out in a desultory parade. Beautiful as their surroundings are, it will be a relief to return to the ship and get some rest.

Washington’s low huff would not sound like a laugh if Hamilton didn't know him so well. "I’ve no idea, my boy. I've never attended a full Galossian banquet."

"Surely we don't need to remain for the _entire banquet_."

"We are the guests of honor, Commander. Our departure will be conspicuous at best, offensive at worst."

"We saved their entire planet. How much of a grudge can they possibly hold?" Hamilton allows a hint of petulance into his tone, but he keeps his face bland in case their hosts are watching.

Again that low sound of amusement—Hamilton does his best to pretend it _doesn't_ warm his chest with impermissable feelings—and Washington concedes, "Very little, I suspect. But we should still be polite. What better opportunity to cultivate a positive relationship for Starfleet?"

Hamilton suppresses an impatient sigh. Washington's right. Washington is _usually_ right, and Hamilton does not have enough ammunition to bring him around. While he can convince nearly anyone of _anything_ , given enough time and linguistic cleverness, Washington has never been susceptible to such tricks. Hamilton will convince him of nothing unless he is _actually right_ , and in this instance he has nothing but fatigue in his corner.

Washington is far too stubborn to let a little thing like exhaustion dissuade him from making a good impression.

They enter the banquet hall at last, a sweeping space full of sculpted stone columns and vaulted ceilings that stretch so high Hamilton has to tilt his head to see the intricate mural work above. It's a gorgeous chamber, as artful as it is enormous. And at the very center, a low table stretches grandly across a marble floor.

Plush cushions are spaced at perfectly measured intervals along both sides of the table. The ruling matriarch takes a seat first, at the very end, with Hamilton and Washington directed to the cushions to her left and right. The old woman wears a pleased smile, her ice-blue skin a striking contrast to blue lips that have been painted an even darker shade. The rest of the royal family, as well as some two dozen members of their entourage, sit in an orderly fashion along the rest of the table, and silent servers emerge with food and drink as soon as everyone has settled.

The food is unfamiliar, all soft textures and delicately mingling flavors. Impressive, but too sweet for Hamilton's tastes. The purple beverage in his glass is likewise cloyingly sweet, but he drinks anyway. There is almost certainly alcohol in it, but despite the uniform he still wears, Hamilton is not on duty. More, he isn’t pleased about having to sit at this table and make conversation, when all he wants are soft pajamas and his own bed. He'll drink if he damn well wants to, especially when there’s a server close by to keep pouring him more of these strange alien spirits.

He exercises moderation, more or less, but he drains his glass twice as the meal stretches endlessly on. At least his captain is drinking too. Washington can't chastise him for improper conduct if they’re behaving exactly the same.

Hamilton watches Washington more closely than he should as the evening progresses. More closely than he usually allows himself to do, considering the need to guard the infatuation he harbors for his captain. Normally he is careful. Professional. Cautious.

Tonight his usual caution is increasingly absent, and he does not care. He lets his attention wander—repeatedly—away from their Galossian hosts to Washington's handsome face. To strong shoulders and powerful chest and eyes that spark with life despite his captain’s barely concealed fatigue. To Washington's hands atop the table.

To Washington's mouth, stained purple from his drink, expressive and soft and generous.

He catches Washington staring back at him more than once. Their eyes catch with increasing frequency the longer they remain at this table, and there are seconds at a stretch where neither of them looks away.

It’s strange. It is _wrong_. And Hamilton does not care.

"Are you all right, Commander Hamilton?" the matriarch asks when his attention drifts too far and too long. There is a faint crease of confusion at the center of her brow, a tinge of genuine worry in her tone.

Hamilton blinks and forces his gaze away from the line of Washington's throat in order to meet their host's eyes. "Why wouldn't I be all right?"

"You seem… distracted." There is no hint of offense in the words. Only concern. A deeper furrowing of her brow. A downward tilt at one corner of her mouth. "Perhaps our regional ale does not agree with your human biology?"

Hamilton blinks again, struggling to _think_. His head feels a little fuzzy, but that doesn't explain the strength of his preoccupation, or his uncharacteristic lack of chagrin. He should be appalled at their host calling him out for _staring longingly at his captain_ , and instead he feels… Warm. Hungry. Unconcerned.

What the hell is wrong with him?

He glances down at the glass in his hand. Then across the table at Washington who is staring hard at his own drink, a thoughtful frown on his handsome face. When Washington raises his head and meets Hamilton's eyes, there is a contradictory flash of both heat and alarm. A moment of mutual comprehension passes between them—they should _both_ have recognized sooner that something was wrong—and then Washington turns to their host.

"Sincere apologies, Your Eminence," Washington says to the matriarch. "But I think you may be right. I hope you won't mind if we depart for our ship. It's been a truly lovely evening."

He delivers this farewell with such a smooth, unworried tone that their host simply smiles and gives an imperious nod of her head.

"Thank you, Captain. For your heroic service, and for your company tonight. We wish you safely on your journey."

Hamilton's legs are steady enough beneath him when he rises from the table, and he sees Washington move with the same fluid grace as always. The alcohol in the drink can’t have been potent—Hamilton is barely tipsy—but he feels strange in other ways. Cloudy when he tries to think beyond following Washington out of the banquet hall. Distracted, and shivery, and disoriented. His skin is too tight. His insides are uncomfortably warm. Washington is several steps ahead of him and _too far away_.

They could simply beam up from the banquet hall, but Hamilton doesn't question why Washington leads him into the corridor instead. They continue along the hall without stopping, taking turn after turn after turn. Halting when they reach a smaller archway that leads out onto a shadowed balcony.

The balcony overlooks the canyon to the west. Another few steps and Washington is outside. Around the corner of the sturdy wall and out of sight.

Hamilton follows—of course he does—he can't let his captain vanish without him.

The horizon is gorgeous. This little corner of balcony is tucked in a slim crevice between a wall and a tower—heavy gloom shields it as the planet's second sun sinks below the mountain ridge—and the space is surprisingly private. They are completely alone, and that knowledge is more staggering than the dusk-hazed view of the natural landscape below.

They need to contact the ship. Transport back to the Nelson, make their way to sickbay. Surely the drinks weren’t harmful, but they need to be sure, and they need their systems clear. They’re both compromised, even if Hamilton is not entirely sure _how_.

Neither one of them reaches for a communicator. Hamilton stands perfectly still, desperate to touch. Washington is not looking at their surroundings either. Instead, fierce eyes stare at Hamilton, a look so hard and hungry that Hamilton's face burns.

A lightning storm is igniting beneath his skin. He feels small and lost and greedy for his captain's touch.

When did Washington move so close to him? Or maybe Hamilton is the one who moved. Maybe he stepped into Washington's space without thinking. He tilts his head back to meet Washington's eyes, because they’re standing nearly toe-to-toe and Washington is so fucking _tall_.

Wind rushes around them, and Hamilton’s body sways even farther forward. His gaze drops to Washington's mouth—to parted lips—and when Washington's tongue licks out just for an instant, Hamilton's pulse rockets faster.

"We should contact the ship," Washington says, but the words sound wrong, graveled and strained and shaking.

Hamilton can't find enough of his voice to agree.

He is not surprised when Washington still doesn't reach for his communicator, instead leaning even closer. Both hands stay fisted tightly at Washington's sides, but his intentions are unmistakable. He's going to initiate a kiss. Press his mouth to Hamilton's and finally move them past this frantic, confusing standoff. They're almost touching now. Barely a sliver of space remains between them, and Hamilton's pulse is deafening in his ears.

His burst of self-restraint comes out of nowhere: Hamilton takes an abrupt step to the side. He turns away—finds the chest-high railing of the balcony immediately in front of him—an ornate but sturdy swoop of metal and stone. Hamilton's lungs work hard, his breath coming fast as he curls both hands over the top swirl of metal.

The windy silence does not last.

"Are you all right?" Washington still sounds wrong. The hint of worry in his tone is undermined by the fact that he steps forward with the question, crowding behind Hamilton.

"I'm—" Hamilton starts, fully prepared to lie and say he is _fine_.

But before he can finish the sentence, Washington closes the sliver of space between them, chest pressing along Hamilton's back in a hot, hard line. A broad hand covers Hamilton's atop the balcony wall. Washington's other arm slips deftly around him, palm pressing against his stomach, distracting through the fabric of Hamilton’s uniform.

He inhales sharply at the touch, but he does not try to get away.

He doesn't _want_ to get away. He wants Washington to keep touching him. To take further liberties. To tear down the barriers of propriety and claim Hamilton for his own.

"We still need to contact the ship," Washington murmurs, but he presses his mouth to Hamilton's throat with the words, rendering the admonition less than convincing. "Sickbay can figure out what’s wrong."

" _Yes_ ," Hamilton agrees shakily. "Sickbay." Sickbay is exactly where they need to be. So why is he pressing himself more firmly along Washington's chest instead? Why is he tilting his head to offer more of his throat as Washington's teeth nip and then bite harder, as a swipe of Washington's tongue soothes the spot?

Another moment and Washington is panting, breath hot along Hamilton's jaw, and the hand on his stomach slides lower. Fumbles with the fastening of Hamilton's pants, no hesitation now as the hurried touch slides beneath his uniform.

Hamilton chokes an inarticulate sound as Washington palms his cock, already achingly hard.

He can feel an answering hardness behind him, nudging his backside when Washington crushes more tightly against him.

Hamilton bites his own lower lip, and his eyes fall shut. He can't restrain the whimper of pleasure at the sensation of Washington's hand on his cock. Strong fingers stroke him despite the tight confines of his uniform, and the friction is overwhelming. Hamilton's head falls back against Washington's shoulder, and he struggles to open his eyes—to ground himself even as his hips thrust involuntarily forward—as he arches into the firm grip.

He shivers at the sensation of Washington seeking friction simultaneously. The roll of hips and the jarring shove as Washington rocks him forward hard against the railing. The awareness of his captain _rutting against him_ with the same desperation igniting Hamilton's blood.

It shouldn't be this good; it is _maddening_.

He drops his unrestrained hand to cover the one Washington is currently using to torment him, unable to keep still. Through the fabric of Hamilton's uniform, Washington's hand is hot to the touch, huge and strong. Hamilton grasps tightly, spreading his legs wider and pressing Washington's hand harder between them, rubbing frantically against his captain's palm.

There's an answering thrust behind him, a groan in his ear as Washington's hips buck forward.

Abruptly the hand covering Hamilton's atop the railing disappears. He has no chance to protest before the vanished grip is twisting in his messy queue instead. Firm, sharp, hard enough that his scalp stings a little as Washington uses the grip to put Hamilton exactly where he wants him. Positioning him just right—turning him just enough in Washington's arms—to claim his mouth in an a clumsy kiss despite the way he's still grinding against Hamilton's back.

Hamilton moans helplessly into the kiss, opening for his captain's tongue. Continuing to hold Washington's other hand firmly—desperately—between his legs. God he wishes they were both wearing less clothing. He wishes they could do _more_ than this. But he is enjoying the sensations coursing through him far too much to stop and reroute. He can't bear to let Washington stop touching him.

It's Hamilton who comes first, still fully dressed, still with one of Washington's hands beneath his uniform and the other fisted in his hair.

From the way the kiss breaks at nearly the same instant—from the breaths panting shallowly against his throat—Hamilton knows Washington is close too.

He moans when the hand slips from beneath his clothes, but his captain doesn't retreat from behind him as he halfway fears. Instead a muscular arm circles his waist and holds on with crushing strength. Keeping him in place as Washington's hips stutter forward faster and harder than before, rhythm turning uneven.

He covers Washington's arm with his own, twining his fingers around his captain's wrist in encouragement. He turns his head to the side even though Washington isn't kissing him anymore, pressing his temple to Washington's jaw. He gasps when a particularly brutal thrust knocks him against the railing.

"Come on," Hamilton breathes, shocky and frantic. "Come on, finish it, you're so fucking close. _Come on_."

Washington jolts him again, holds him closer. Groans aloud. Fuck, that sound _does_ things to Hamilton. It sneaks beneath his skin, ignites an inferno behind his ribs, leaves his chest full and tight.

"I want to feel you." Hamilton's voice is barely above a whisper now, needy and raw. His whole body trembles—he's overstimulated and exhausted and his briefs are slick with his own release—but he doesn't care about any of that. "Let me feel you come, sir, _please_. Oh fuck, please do it."

Washington kisses him again, but it's sloppier than before. Frantic and falling apart and so fucking perfect. Submitting to this kiss is a challenge, because Washington is still moving against him, ragged and uncoordinated as he chases his own orgasm. When the kiss breaks, Washington's mouth finds his throat almost instantly. There are teeth again, but this time they dig in _hard_ —clamping down with bruising force—hot suction as his captain marks him. Hamilton doesn't complain; he moans, shaking in his captain's arms.

A couple more jolting thrusts, and then Washington goes sharply still. His orgasm is obvious despite the fabric separating their bodies, and he picks a new spot to bite down even harder, just below Hamilton's jaw. Washington’s shout of ecstasy is muffled, satisfaction on the very edge of violence.

Washington continues to hold him in the silence that follows. Clinging—both of them motionless but for the quick rise and fall of their chests as they catch their breath—when the chirp of a commbadge interrupts them.

"Nelson to Washington." Lafayette's voice carries clear and unremarkable across the comm frequency.

A beat passes before the hand in Hamilton's hair disappears and he hears the answering beep of Washington tapping his commbadge. "Washington here." He sounds ragged. Shaken. Sure to ignite suspicion, or at the very least concern. Hamilton bites his own lower lip to keep silent.

"Sir." Lafayette sounds distinctly confused. "The Galossian matriarch contacted us to bid the ship a safe departure. She seemed surprised you had not already returned. Is everything okay?"

Washington swallows audibly and when he answers he sounds steadier. "Everything is fine, Gil. We'll be ready to beam aboard momentarily."

It's a wordless scramble putting themselves to rights. Washington tugs his uniform straighter. Hamilton does up his fly and fixes his queue. Uncomfortable as it is—desperate as he might be for a change of clothes—it's simple enough making himself presentable.

"Ready, sir?" Lafayette's voice cuts through the silence once more.

"Yes," Washington answers, and now he sounds more like the steady and unflappable captain he is. "But please beam us directly to sickbay. We may have imbibed something injudicious at the banquet."

Hamilton blinks and abruptly remembers this was the plan. This is fine. They're going to sickbay now.

He has just enough wherewithal to take a decisive step back before the transporter beam activates. He moves himself out of Washington's personal space, so they don’t materialize in sickbay all over each other.

Sickbay itself is almost a disappointment in its brusque answers. Yes, the purple drink included a chemical more complicated that simple alcohol. Yes, it interfered with their mental pathways in some strange and unclear way. No, it won’t be harmful in the long run, but it's fortunate they drank relatively little.

There's no immediate way to clear their systems; they will simply have to wait for the chemical to break down naturally.

"I can give you a dose of something that'll help you sleep through the night. Bonus, it should mitigate the nasty hangovers you're both going to be dealing with tomorrow." It's Peggy offering these terms. She is professionalism incarnate; if she notices the collection of new bruises along Hamilton's throat, she makes no comment. No offer to clean them up with a dermal regenerator. Probably she's waiting for _him_ to acknowledge them and make such a request.

For once he keeps his mouth shut.

"Here." Peggy doses them both from the same hypospray. "This should kick in about twenty minutes from now. Try to be _in your beds_ by then, or you'll fall asleep anyway."

Five minutes later, Hamilton is somehow not surprised to be inside his own quarters with Washington at his back. _Your beds_ Peggy had said. Separate beds. Separate quarters. They should have split up on deck seven and walked opposite directions. But he's glad Washington followed him instead. He already feels hazy—exhaustion and whatever Peggy injected making it difficult to keep his eyes open—and he shucks his uniform with sleepy efficiency. Finds his way into the washroom for the quickest cleanup of his life before crawling naked into his bed.

His eyes are already closed as he hears Washington follow his example, and he breathes a sigh of satisfaction when Washington eases into bed behind him. Naked skin welcome along Hamilton's spine. Breath warm on the back of his neck.

Washington's arms encircle him, tucking Hamilton against his chest.

Hamilton hums an exhausted sound and nestles into the embrace. Somewhere at the back of his mind there is something nagging at him—a surety that he is going to wake tomorrow morning unhappy for some reason—but for now he doesn't care. His heart is full, and his body is sated, and his captain is in his bed.

What more can he possibly need?

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: **[Spirit](https://dreamlittleyo.dreamwidth.org/103669.html)**


End file.
